


how the mokuton should have been used

by selwyn



Category: Naruto
Genre: M/M, One Shot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-24 04:29:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17697665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/selwyn/pseuds/selwyn
Summary: What does Madara think about when he’s trying to get off? A serious question seeking serious answers. (Alternatively known as: The Battlefield Fantasy That Shall Never Be Discussed)





	how the mokuton should have been used

Madara laid in his futon and stared at the tiny gap in his tent where moonlight poured in. Whoever had erected it had done a sloppy job and now there was that small sliver there, letting in the wind. He wanted to get up and close it, but his limbs didn’t seem ready to obey him. There was also the giant gash in his stomach, but it’d begun to hurt so much that he’d transcended it. Now it was just background noise, like the bellowing of the frogs and the chirping crickets.

He moved a little, and sharp pain jolted up his body and speared his brain. Izuna made him poppy tea for the pain, but it just made his head fuzzy and warm.

He had a headache. It wasn’t unusual. Probably the pain.

Madara closed his eyes, then opened them again. He thought about company; about Hikaku, the last time he’d taken a camp boy after a battle. Hikaku was good for it, because he knew how to keep secrets. Madara had been on his knees, his eyes clenched shut, his futon in his mouth as Hikaku fucked him into the ground. It’d been nice, but Madara had spent most of the time wondering if he’d aggravate his injuries enough to bleed through his bandages.

He kneaded his eyes. He didn’t like Hikaku in the right way – it wasn’t his fault. He was good-looking enough.

He mulled over the people he liked. The things he liked. Long hair. Thick arms. Scars. Heavy armor. Large, warm hands.  The way a man’s chest moved after strenuous activity. Sweat running down a muscled back after working in the hot sun all day. The heaviness of a large body on top of you, wide palms pressing you into the dirt.

Senju Hashirama. Taller than him. Brown hair, brown eyes, strong hands. Long, muscular legs. Strongest person he ever fought, still couldn’t beat him. Smiled whenever Madara showed up on the battlefield. Him on his knees with his mouth on his cock, Madara’s hand tangled up in his long, long hair. Hashirama smiling.

Madara sighed and he kicked his blankets off. His stomach hurt when he reached down, but he pushed past the pain and wrapped his hand around himself. He closed his eyes and continued.

Hashirama was here again, but this time he was fully dressed and armored. His hair blew in the wind and he was yelling a challenge. Wood curled out from the earth around him in a widening radius and his chakra spilled off his body like a corona of light. It was always warm, always overwhelming, as strong as sake when Madara was close enough to see the dirt on his cheek.

He pictured the wood crawling towards him and wrapping around his legs. He knew the feeling – had experienced it so many times that he lost count. It was strong enough to crush his bones and it was solid. Unbreakable.

Madara let himself be reeled in.

 _I don’t do it like that,_ Hashirama said. His voice had deepened in manhood. Madara wanted to lick it out of his mouth.

Not important.

 _It’s usually very violent,_ he said.

He liked it that way.

His armor splintered off him as the wood crawled up his legs, over his hips, and wrapped around his chest. Of course, the armor didn’t break that easily in real life or it would be useless, but it had no place in his fantasy.

Hashirama beckoned him closer until Madara was dragged before his feet, struggling to no avail. He roared fire at him and the wood doesn’t catch. The flames don’t even go near Hashirama.

Hm. No. Too impersonal.

It was him and Hashirama again, but there was no Mokuton this time. They wrestled furiously, throwing punches and kicks, but Hashirama was stronger – had always been, his heart doing flips in his chest – and he pulled Madara down to the ground. They rolled around like that, grappling for an advantage, but Hashirama grabbed his neck and he threw Madara flat on his back. He stared up and Hashirama squeezed tighter.

Madara inhaled with a slight tremble. Yeah. He liked that. He _really_ liked that.

Hashirama forced him to turn around. On his knees, but his head pressed down into the ground. He had a fistful of hair that he pulled hard enough to make his eyes water, and he used it to hold him down. They’re naked now, because it was easier to work a fantasy around bare skin than clothes.

This time, the Mokuton came out. It slithered over his back and grabbed his arms and wrested them away from the ground. Locked them into place behind his back, his fingers curled uselessly. It left him unbalanced, his weight rested on his aching knees and straining neck, and in the real world, Madara bit his hand to cut off his moan.

 _This is a bit much,_ Hashirama complained and Madara impatiently ignored him.

When Hashirama grabbed him, it was by the hips. His hands, Madara always liked his hands. When he’d been a kid, those hands had been square and stubby-fingered, a little crooked from being broken too many times. In adulthood, they’d lengthened, and his palms had become wide and solid. Warm, always warm, and covered in callouses from holding weapons all day. Now they dug into his hips until was a hair away from too much and Hashirama’s presence was still like a blinding light to his senses, all heavy, thick chakra that made him dizzy.

Their surroundings, which had been a vague colorless space before, now became familiar. A battlefield. It was mottled by the Mokuton and the air still smelled ashy from Katon jutsu. Madara’s cheek ground into the blood-smeared dirt and they were hidden from any prying eyes by great slabs of wood.

He liked to think that Hashirama didn’t share.

When he finally fucked him, it burned enough to make his teeth grit. Madara would try to kick him and more branches would sprout from the naked earth and pull his knees down. Spread them apart. Hashirama is big, of course he is, and thick in a way that made his mouth salivate, and there’s no better feeling than him pushing inside Madara.

Hashirama fucked him like he meant to own him. He fucked the way he fought, immense power and presence, a force that broke everything in his way. Madara wanted to devour him, to possess him, to fuck him, to have him, and become one with him, and he could do nothing when Hashirama thrust into him in a slow, ruinous way. He snarled and spat at him, and Hashirama only yanked his hair until it felt like he should be tearing out handfuls of it.

Madara distantly recognized that he was biting himself hard enough to draw blood. It wasn’t that he minded the taste, but he had strong jaws. He switched to his knuckles, breathing hard.

Hashirama began to move. If the start was slow, then this part was the fight – fast, destructive. Madara panted into the ground and bit out curses, furious, burning hot, wanting more. He struggled with the wood but it was immoveable, creaking around his writhing body, and he could hear the way Hashirama’s voice grew ragged behind him.

He’d heard that before. Another battlefield. It’d been a particularly hard push and Madara had listened to each one of his heaving breaths in the fight. Etched it into his memory for later. He’d come at Hashirama with the intent to kill, then he’d gone home and groaned his name into his bedsheets as he replayed that memory over and over again.

The Mokuton eased up, but only so Hashirama could pull him back by his hair, just enough to make his back arch. He pounded into him and it was too much. Madara was breathless, overtaken, but Hashirama continued and when he came, he did it buried inside him, his chest pressed against Madara’s back.

He wasn’t done. Hashirama lingered on top of him and then he moved, bending forward. Madara let out a muffled whine when the change moved his cock inside him, but he stilled when he felt Hashirama’s hair fall against the back of his sweaty neck. His lips pressed against the shell of his ear. The words were soft but he heard them with crystal clarity: _I’m stronger than you._

Madara bit down hard as he came, digging his heels into his futon, and the world greyed out for a few seconds as he held onto the feeling of Hashirama on him, in him, all of it scrapped together from memories of battlefields and other lovers.

He tasted more blood. Madara pulled his hand away from his mouth and eyed the indentions of his teeth and where the skin had broken and bled. He was breathing hard and there was a telltale sticky-warm feeling dripping over his slowing hand, but he didn’t want to finish up just yet.

It felt like too much to keep going, but it sliced through his nerves like lightning. The most cohesive parts of the fantasy fell apart in the aftershocks of pleasure, but Madara held onto the best pieces. The sound of Hashirama’s hard breathing could easily be moaning. The heavy press of his body in battle became for fucking. He imagined the smell of him, the flow of his hair, the way his shoulders moved, and he swallowed thickly as it the pleasure became a little too sharp and he had to stop.

He reluctantly cracked his eyes open and made a face. He needed something to wipe this all down with, because he wasn’t a disgusting animal who slept in his own filth. And on top of that…

A slow red flower was blooming over the bandages on his stomach. Madara propped himself up and stared at it dimly. It was lit up just enough by the moonlight that he could see the way the blood crawled through the white layers.

He must’ve tensed up too many times for the stitches to hold. Briefly, he considered just ignoring it and going to sleep. He felt good enough to do so, held down by snatches of deep voices and brown skin, and he’d probably die of blood loss in his sleep.

What a way to go.

Madara sighed. Then he reluctantly got up.

This was, he decided as he wiped his thighs clean and went to find the healers, Hashirama’s fault.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a comment-based life form, loves. Comments keep me writing, so leave something below if you liked it <3 My tumblr is sennokami.tumblr.com, I rp and post snips of my writing there for the most part.


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